


Sick Days and Tomato Soup

by Destiel_5eva



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, M/M, Sick Castiel, Sick Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-18
Updated: 2014-11-18
Packaged: 2018-02-26 03:55:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2637059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Destiel_5eva/pseuds/Destiel_5eva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based off this prompt: we’re both sick and we both grabbed for the last can of soup at the store au</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sick Days and Tomato Soup

Waking up sick is like one big ‘fuck you’ from God. Seriously, who even wants to be sick? It’s not like you can just catch up on some of the things you’ve been meaning to do. No, being sick you can’t do _anything_ without feeling like you’re dying.

 

When Dean Winchester woke up with a pounding head and a nose dribbling worse than a tap with a shitty plumbing job he was determined to deny, deny, deny.

 

***

 

The alarm clock sounds louder this morning. Dean barely registers swiping it off the bedside table and onto the floor. He groans and rolls over, his body feeling strangely heavy and _why the fuck is my head pounding?_ He groans again. Opening his eyes, he instantly regrets it. The sun streaming in through the blinds feels like a giant spotlight burning into his retinas.

 

Sitting up, he splays his hands on the tangled sheets. His eyes are burning and his throat feels like he’s gargled a shit load of gravel. “Oh no,” he moans, sniffing—trying to hold back the load of snot threatening to drip from his nose. This is not good at all.

 

Standing, he shuffles over to the door, bracing himself on the frame. A wave of nausea hits him and it takes every ounce of self-control he has to not vomit all over his freshly vacuumed carpet. He hobbles across the hall and into the bathroom; he drops to his knees before the toilet. The bile burns his already raw throat and tears well in his eyes. _Fuck this_ , he thinks wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

 

Dean’s just finished showering when he hears the faint trill of his phone. Muttering curses about being sick, he answers the phone with a raspy, “Hello?”

 

“Dean? Are you hung over?” Sam’s cheery voice grates on Dean’s nerves. He glares into his reflection in the mirrored door of his armoire.

 

“No I am not hung over, Sam. It is a Tuesday morning why the fuck would I be hung over?” Dean grouches, sitting down at the foot of the bed. He rubs his temples, willing the throbbing pain to go away.

 

“Aw is poor Dean sick?” Sam mocks.

 

“Shut up, bitch. What do you want?”

 

“Jess wants to know if you’re coming to the barbeque on Sunday? She’s trying to get an estimate so she knows how much food to make,” Sam explains. There’s muffled noise in the background, Dean can faintly make out Sam’s girlfriend; Jessica’s voice, in the background. “Jess also says that you should stay home today and take it easy if you’re sick. Eat some soup, take some painkillers.” Dean rolls his eyes. Of course Jess would go all mother hen on his ass as soon as she found out he’s sick.

 

“I might. Where the hell am I going to get soup? I can barely stand up let alone cook,” Dean complains.

 

Sam sighs, “Go to the store, you lazy ass. Look, I gotta go, you comin’ on Sunday or not?”

 

“Yeah, I’ll be there.”

 

“Ok, take care of yourself,” Sam says in farewell, “Oh! And try bringing a date or something. You haven’t had anyone around in a while,” he adds before hanging up. Dean mutters another curse, before dropping flat on the bed. He closes his eyes and wishes the pain away. Where the hell is he going to find a _date_ by Sunday?

 

Bobby calls him an ‘idgit’ when Dean calls in sick ten minutes later. Dean promises that he’ll be in tomorrow but Bobby just tells him to relax ‘I don’t need my best mechanic droppin’ dead’.

 

Dean wanders around his apartment, he doesn’t spend all that much time here. He’s always either at Sam’s or work or the Roadhouse. He’s not a slob, but maybe he could take a little more care of the place. An empty beer bottle sits by the leg of the coffee table and dust coats the TV cabinet.

 

As soon as Dean whips out the duster to do a spot of spring cleaning the nausea comes rolling back and Dean finds himself getting up close and personal with the toilet bowl. _So much for cleaning_ , Dean thinks, plonking down on his worn couch with a blanket and the remote. He settles in for a Star Trek marathon.

 

Dean opens his eyes several hours later to find his head still pounding and a message on his phone.

 

_You got that soup yet?—Jess_

Dean swears and sits up, the blanket falling to the floor. He stands, typing out a quick reply as he goes to find his keys and wallet.

 

_Going now._

He winces at the sound of the front door slamming shut behind him. Fuck being sick.

 

~*~

 

“CASTIEL GET UP YOU LAZY ASSHOLE!” Gabriel shouts, pounding on Castiel’s bedroom door. Cas wakes with a start, sitting bolt upright in bed. “CaAaAaAs!” Gabriel’s voice wavers in volume.

 

“I’m coming,” Cas tries to reply, but all that comes out is a croak. _Oh shit,_ Cas curses internally, a subconscious hand fluttering to his throat. It’s only now that he’s registering the raw burn in his throat and the bone deep weariness.

 

“Cas I swear if you’re ignoring me I won’t refrain from slapping you into next week,” Gabe calls through the door. Gingerly, Castiel picks his way across the room. It seems that every single bone in his body aches. _This is it, I’m dying._

Cas opens the door, staring glumly at his brother. Gabe reels backward, “Holy shit what happened to you?” Cas glares at his brother.

 

“ ‘M sick,” he croaks, limping over to the stairs, wincing with each step downwards. He ignores Gabe’s cackling from behind him, focusing on not taking a dive headfirst down the stairs. His body hurts enough, as it is thank you very much.

 

“Looks like you aren’t going anywhere today then,” Gabe says, sounding _way_ to cheery about this unfortunate turn of events. _Sadistic bastard._

 

“You don’t say,” Cas bites back, but all that comes out is a gravelly mumble.

 

“Oh well, have a good day Cas,” Gabe pats him on the shoulder as he settles into a chair at the kitchen table. “Try not to die while I’m at work, Kay? Oh and I’ll try remember to pick you up some soup or something. We’ll see.” Then he’s gone. Castiel reaches across the table for the morning’s newspaper. If he waits for Gabe to bring him soup, he’ll be stone cold dead by the time is arrives. _I’ll go to the little grocery store later,_ he vows. Hunching over as a wave of body shuddering coughs wracks him. Tears spring to his eyes at the battering his already painful throat is subject to.

 

~*~

 

Dean really must be a sight for sore eyes. He feels like shit and from the concerned looks people keep throwing him; he looks like shit too. He keeps his head down; he’s on a mission. Code name: Fuck Sickness.

 

Winding down the aisles, Dean picks up a box of throat lozenges hoping to God that they really do cure sore throats in ‘no time’ because right now it feels like he’s eaten a broken bottle. He continues on his way, clenching his jaw to keep down the barely there nausea. He might just die of embarrassment if he blew chunks across Aisle 5.

 

Heading towards the canned goods aisle, Dean notices that the shelves are looking decidedly empty. _Please for the love of God let there be tomato soup._ He scans the shelves, walking slowly to be sure he doesn’t miss anything. _Chicken, Beef, Vegetable, Minestrone… What the fuck_ Fish _soup? Broth, Noodle, Lentil Ah Tomato!_ Dean reaches for the can, his fingers brushing the top of the tin just as another hand grabs the bottom. Dean turns, not letting go of his prize. A man, looking probably even worse than he does is holding the tin.

 

“Um, I had it first,” Dean rasps, pulling the tin towards him. The man doesn’t release his hold.

 

“Please, you don’t un-understand,” Dean can barely hear the other mans voice it’s that choked. “I have to have this soup, I can’t afford to be ill.”

 

“Well guess what Darth, neither can I!” Dean glares at the blue-eyed stranger.

 

“I assume you made a pop culture reference as my name is not ‘Darth’ it is Castiel and I would appreciate it,” he coughs harshly—a hacking sound that makes even Dean flinch in sympathy, “if you let me have the last can.”

 

“I can see you’re sick, I am too… clearly. But only one of us can have this tin and I grabbed it first therefore it should be me,” Dean argues, his head beginning to spin. All this talking and standing is killing him, all he wants to do is lie down and sleep for a year. _And I could be well on his way to doing that, would this ass just let me have the tomato soup._

 

“You did not!” the man growls. “Just let me have the can, please. There are so many other flavours to choose from,” he gestures to the sparse shelves with his free hand.

 

“I only like tomato,” Dean pouts.

 

“So do I.”

 

“I’ll pay you. Look the tin is…” he looks at the little ticket displaying the price, “two dollars ten, I’ll give you five bucks if you let me have it,” Dean barters.

 

“Seriously?! No way.”

 

“Come on!” Dean barely refrains from stamping his foot like a petulant child. “Fine, I’ll share it with you,” Dean concedes, watching the other man for a reaction. He’s already got a plan forming in his head. Behind the bloodshot and puffy eyes, the bed hair and the slight hunch… _Castiel_ looks damn hot. And Dean is pretty sure that the only reason his libido is unhelpfully absent is because his body is more worried about fighting off this flu than getting laid.

 

Castiel’s eyes narrow. “Why? What do you mean?” he rasps suspiciously, trying to surreptitiously pull the canned soup closer to him. Dean’s grip tightens on the can. _Oh no he doesn’t._

 

“Come back to mine. I’ll make us some grilled cheeses and we’ll split the soup. What do ya say?” Dean winks, laying on the charm. Maybe if he ignores the fact that he looks like shit, this handsome and very sick (much like himself) stranger will fall for his advances.

 

“Are you flirting with me over a can of soup?” Castiel asks, incredulously before almost doubling over in another coughing fit. It’s during this that he releases his hold of the tin in favour of reaching for the shelving unit to hold him up. _Shit,_ Dean curses, stepping forward to rub the poor guys back. Normally, he would have taken the tin and ran, but Castiel just looks so harmless and _sick_ he can’t bring himself to do it. “Well, you got your soup, I suppose you can just leave now,” he mutters bitterly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he goes to turn away.

 

“Wait. My offer still stands, if you wanna have some of the soup then well… yeah,” Dean finishes lamely. Castiel stares back at Dean over his shoulder. He shakes his head once, but a small smile pulls at the corners of his lips.

 

“Ok.”

 

~*~

 

Had Cas been told that he was going to get in an argument that resulted in him sharing blanket and body warmth of a very hot and very sick stranger, he would have laughed. But nevertheless he finds himself _not_ curling up against Dean’s side; their empty soup bowls on the coffee table in front of them.

 

Dean has his arm strewn across the back of the couch and Cas tries his damndest not to lean against it. Pulling out a box of throat lozenges he silently offers one, which Cas takes gratefully. They silently watch an episode of Star Trek, ignoring the fact that they’ve only known each other for two hours tops. Maybe being sick isn’t so bad after all.

 

Two episodes later, Dean is snoring lightly, his head tilted back, his arm slipping off the couch to rest around Castiel’s shoulders. Somehow he can’t find it in himself to care. This has been the best sick day of his life, what is there to complain about?

 

Checking his watch, Castiel’s eyes nearly bug out of his head when he sees that it’s a quarter past four in the afternoon. Gabriel would shit a brick if he came home to find Castiel not there and without any explanation of where he’d been. It’s best if he never knows about Dean. Maybe if this amounts to something... Extracting himself from Dean’s embrace, Cas heads to the kitchen to scrounge up a pad and pencil. He scrawls a hasty note:

 

_I’m very sorry I couldn’t stay; I had to get home to my brother._

_Call me? XXX XXX_

_\--Castiel Novak._

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are always appreciated!


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